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Why wouldn’t she call Finley? Or an Uber?
Because Finley would not have allowed her to leave. She would have talked her out of it. And if she’d left her purse at the hospital, she probably had no money for a taxi of any sort.
But still, how had she gotten the number for Finley’s father? Maybe from back in September when she rescued Finley from the would-be assassin? Had her neighbor and her father met during all the insanity that night?
Finley had no idea.
The man—assassin ... the memory of that night flashed like a scene from a movie through Finley’s brain. Helen Roberts had stopped the bastard with nothing more than a garden shovel. Finley would never have expected the elderly woman to be so strong ... so savvy at recognizing danger.
Finley thought of the scar in the webbing between the thumb and pointer finger of her right hand. Had she ...?
The scenario that sifted through her startled Finley ... made her breath catch. No ... way. Then she thought of her neighbor’s eyes ... of the shape of her nose ... and the image took form.
“Son of a bitch.”
Shock making her movements stilted, Finley unlocked the door and eased it open. Whatever the hell was going on, she was about to raise absolute hell with her father and ... this ...woman.
The garage was empty.
Finley blinked twice to ensure her eyes weren’t betraying her. A big metal door in the floor beneath where the Buick had been parked stood open. A railing of sorts stuck up from the opening. Sunshine from the half-dozen skylights showered down on the scene, making the space feel too bright ... too stark.
Forcing away the idea that she was about to step into Pandora’s box, she moved closer. Storm shelter? Her brow furrowed with confusion. She’d seen the advertisements for putting them in a garage. Vaguely remembered considering one for the garage at her condo back in the day—before she’d stopped caring if she lived or died.
Focus.
Finley took a big, ragged breath. Her father and ...shemust have gone down there.
This was beyond wrong. This was crazy. Over the edge. Finley’s head was still swimming at the scenario her mind had pieced together.
She inched closer to the center of the garage. Her heart bumping harder and harder against her sternum. When she reached the opening, there were steps. The railing followed those steps downward. Somewhere below, she heard voices—the deep rumble of her father’s voice, then the weaker, frail sound of her neighbor’s. Both had a hell of a lot of explaining to do. And if Finley found what she feared she would ... she shook herself. Christ, she didn’t even want to think about that.
Holding her breath to ensure she didn’t miss a sound, she eased down the first step. Moving as quietly as possible, she crept downanother step and then another. The thundering in her chest had turned into an ache that swelled and swelled, pressing against her insides ... making her feel the need to run back up and pretend none of this was happening.
When she reached the bottom, she was in a small space one would expect in a storm shelter such as this one. The lighting was very dim. Benches lined the sidewalls. But there was more ...
A door waited directly in front of her. It stood partially open. The voices she’d heard were coming from beyond that door. With effort, she swallowed back the lump pressing upward into her throat and took the six steps across the cramped space to the door. Steeling herself once more, she reached out, gripped the knob and pulled it more fully open.
A not-so-pleasant odor met her. Musty. Like an old basement or space that stayed shut up too much.
Keep going.
What lay beyond the door was yet another smaller room or hallway. Still dimly lit. From where Finley stood, the hallway went forward about four feet and right maybe a dozen feet, then opened into a larger, well-lit room. She could see the light and the opening from where she stood in a sort of numb status. She should keep going, but her feet refused to move. This ...thiswas like an episode fromStranger Things, and Finley felt as if she were watching from some other place. If she kept going, there would be no plausible deniability. If she turned around now, she could simply walk away wondering what the hellthiswas and never look back.
Except, beyond the denial and the shock, she already knew exactly whatthiswas.
The voices were louder now. Her father was arguing about something the woman had done. Finley couldn’t see them yet, but she could hear their voices quite well.
Forcing one foot in front of the other until she reached the larger space, Finley stood still and assessed the situation. The two stood beforewhat could only be described as a cell made for holding an animal. No, too large for that. It was big enough for a human ... aprisoner.
Holy hell.
A rock settled in Finley’s gut, and her knees nearly buckled. What looked like lengths of iron—rebar, she decided—had been installed vertically and horizontally to create the front of a cage. The other three sides were concrete as far as she could see. This place extended well beyond the length of the garage.
Finley closed her eyes tightly for a moment. This couldn’t be. Couldn’t be. Then she opened them and looked once more. The area where her father andshestood was maybe six feet by twelve. The space beyond the bars looked larger, maybe twice that size, but she couldn’t see it very well because the two of them stood in the way arguing.
Finley spotted the corner of what might be a bed or cot.
Oh. My. God.
